


The Fire is Burning

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [30]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, F/M, Humiliation, Immobility, Kink Negotiation, Mindfuck, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Post-Break Up, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Power Play, Reunions, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Magic, Smut, new content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22059268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: From whence did his reason return to him now? To what far place had it travelled? To the past, as ever. To dreams. Reason’s return brought with it sobriety, but then when she put her mouth over him he ceased being able to think, and his last thought was, I have not been wise. Here was reason, and a pulsing cock.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	The Fire is Burning

When did the world sink down to just this scaffolding of stars and smoke? Solas watched the sky and wondered. Between his knees, her lips opened. 

He thought, how unwise this is.

Ah. 

From whence did his reason return to him now? To what far place had it travelled? To the past, as ever. To dreams. Reason’s return brought with it sobriety, but then when she put her mouth over him he ceased being able to think, and his last thought was, I have not been wise. Here was reason, and a pulsing cock. Just last evening he had lain on his cot and the knowledge that he would see her on the morrow had stiffened him, and though he had made every attempt to ignore his body’s straining, though he had tried to enter the realm of dreams and turn his mind once more to exploration and study, the presence of her mouth opening, her tongue pink, had been fixed in the blackness of his closed eyes. Deciding to tend to the pulsing, he had moved his left hand, merely had used it to unbutton the front of his longs down to the naval. His imaginings had supplied him with the sight of her hand on his stomach, her hand unfastening the button. 

He had ejactulated at once, the spray unexpected and with its sudden virulency and volume. Groans that he had intended to stifle wracked his body. He had allowed himself to picture her freely then, that beautiful spirit who had walked within the Fade and emerged resplendent with so much promise and mystery, and with his hand trembling on his stomach he sunk into the luscious memory of her touch, her nearness. He had been at the whim of his body for a time until, wrung out, he had drifted contentedly into dreams. If he looked at her now, he knew the same would happen at once.

Overhead the oak in its spring scent rustled. Lapis birds winged from branch to branch. Their campfire crackled. She was crouched in front of him with her hand on his thigh. He was afraid that if he looked down at her he would be vaulted to completion from the way she looked up at him and smiled. He was failed by his thoughts, so his mind drifted away to paint the picture: he’d use a rope of grey-roan paint for the color of her neck in the moonlight. He’d use alazarin for her red hair, dwarven grüne erde for her eyes, a hazardous, shadowy green. There were decades of war and magic in the scars on her bare breasts, and there were scars also on her bare, scarred shoulders, her bare arm. She had eyes that kept him straying. She brought him in from the hills at night.

Here he had come, to her campfire, to her touch. Had he merely held her, all that time ago? Had that been all? He’d felt anger in her tense and tired body. He had wanted to touch her gently, give her respite; he had wanted to touch her hard, give her ease. 

He had been afraid of the voices in his dreams. 

Had he once held loftier expectations of himself? He’d not deserve them. If there were a guiding morality to which he had once presumed to hold himself in good standing, he had failed its measure now.

This night would end. He would leave her. Had he, then, no nature that was not therefore mean, and driven to make its meanness known?

She let long slugs of spit dangle from her lips onto his cock. Warm, her lips wet. His length strained and shamed him.

She pulled away. “You like that,” she said. The tips of her fingers rested on the sheath of his cock, meditatively sliding his hood with soft, caressing touches. Each stroke made his heart shiver.

“I love you.”

“So you say.”

He felt her magic on the Veil, the flirtation of her will manipulating it, opening sutures and siphoning magic from the Fade to tell the flames, do not scald my skin please. When her magic pressed on the Veil he felt it, the inexorable will which had carried her safely out of the realm of dreams; hers was a self-assured manipulation of magical energies, one which softly worked around all barriers. Not like water, not like ice. Hers was a hot magic. 

He felt his control returning to him as the tension of the night settled its debts. He could use distraction and discipline to last longer in his ardor, and in truth he did not lack practice; there had been times he had privately, imperceptibly edged himself when surrounded by the people crafting their religious rituals to her, sending their war-parades before her for examination. She’d spoken a long time with each of the soldiers, for as long as each could bear to be addressed directly by a Prophet of their faith. There had been all the times he had been standing in the doorway of his little cottage in Haven, and he had seen her and his private fantasies had begun. He had been certain to be private about the effect; the tight muscle hardened and relaxed, unassuming, hands clasped strategically in front of his hips. He had learned to look just above her head to make himself last longer, to allow the vision of her to blur in his off-sight.

She noticed that she wasn’t having the same effect on him. She stopped moving her fingers and removed her slickly-coated tongue. She righted her head. She sighed with apparent boredom. 

He said his part next, coaxingly, “Come near to me.”

Her toes wiggled in the fire. “You want me near to you now? Is… this is the place?” she asked innocently. Her fingers played on his hipbone. 

“That is near the place,” he said, his throat thick. “Return to the position of your head just a moment ago. And. Move your head.” 

She moved her head to one side. “What’s that you said? Move… how?”

As he was possessed of no further integrity, he repeated himself, saying again, “Move your head.”

“There’s an arrow pointed at your throat,” she observed. He smiled. 

He dipped the tip of his erection at her face and said, “Move your head. And take my cock in your mouth.”

She smiled a bland, bored smile and said, “Make me.”

So he did. If he were a man who could place whatever faith he had in fate, he would blame it for the position he was in now. But he had brought himself to this. Fate had only given him knowledge of her; his weakness alone had put her in his arms. He made his grip on the back of her neck iron. He steeled the muscles in his arm, wrist to shoulder. He required her submission through force. She submitted. He held her there to humble her, to keep his strength over her own. Her lips moved on his cock. When she gurgled and spit and sucked her lips together, his chin jerked up. He watched the stars, blearily spinning. Her tongue was hot on his cock. Her hair was soft collected in his fist. He moved her head up and down. He could be tethered here or he could drift away.

“Oh yes. Yes. I see it in you.” He spoke plainly, careful to make his voice neutral and to hide the lightheaded breathlessness which came over him at her touch. “You enjoy it.” 

His eye caught the flash of an arrowhead in the moonlight. Archer armed in Eluviesta, the invisible spy at his shoulder whispered, confirming his observation. A spirit of Loyalty; a rare spirit in this age, though they were not particularly difficult to befriend. It was unfortunate that too easily were they corrupted. Its warning delivered, the spirit drifted from his awareness.

“Tell me. Speak,” he toyed with her, “Does it please you? To be thusly supplicated? When you are watching your subjects kneel, what do you wish — that you might take your rightful place beside them, kneeling also?” 

He grabbed her up to let her speak. She answered, “You take pleasure from imagining me humbled thus?”

“I’d hope that was apparent.”

“You’d be surprised.” 

He forced her head back down.

He said, “Your hand and knees should be sore from the cold stone floor. You put your cunt up and opened in the very throne room you make pronouncements of new articles of faith, new articles of war. Tell me, Inquisitor. Do you wish to be hurled from your high throne?” He let the promise come smooth and cruel. “I gave it to you, and I can take it away.”

She made a muffled sound on his cock. He was hurting her, he knew, in places she was most tender. He examined the way she shook. 

He continued, “Describe how you wish to be used, if not as a head of state. No. Do not move.” She froze. He continued, “Speak as you are. I like to hear you gag.”

She narrowed her eyes. He smiled benignly and waited.

She kept glaring at him, defiant.

He smiled and tilted his head. “Ah, beloved. You would enjoy my death under arrow far too much. For I can concieve of it, the story that would be told… ‘Once upon a time on the misty plains, the divine one was choking. The soldiers rushed to save her, striking her assailant with a fatal blow. What was it that so endangered her? Ah… you wish to know what was the divine one choking on?’” He leaned in. “Why, apostate cock.’”

She choked a laugh and looked at him accusingly, her eyes sparkling, shaking her head. He continued as she put forward every effort to distract him, sucking and rubbing and pressing with her hot tongue. The sound of her making his length slick accompanied his musings as he fantasized aloud for her pleasure, “‘The worshipped prophet swallows down to the balls! The esteemed, beloved speaker to the faithful nuzzles her nose in the enemy’s crotch.’” He peered to the side appreciatively. “Her fingers pluck between her legs the entire time.”

She moaned, and her hand sped. The more he spoke the hotter he felt her mouth, her breath, on his shaft, pink rising into her cheeks as she flushed with wanting. Her hand moved slow between her legs, then quick, then slow again, and he wanted to put his fingers inside her cunt. 

“You wish to put your cheek against the cold stones,” he said leadingly, “and present your sex for the taking?” 

She shivered head to toe, and he couldn’t help smiling at the thrill of leading her to her pleasure.

He delighted in the imagination of it also, of her recieving endless satisfaction from a cavalcade of faceless, anonymous revelers.

Her feet curled in the fire. 

Memories of ember-dark elms burning, crackling campfires tired and sporadic, the smell of cut logs smoking under dawn’s dew. Campfires from other ages; this campfire. She was so familiar to him. The Anchor crackled in his arm. It spit with the faint chords of lyrium-echoes in all her veins, and he heard her like a symphony, heard the way her body sang enchantingly by all the bells of blue song she’d laced into her veins. 

Every inch of her sang deliciously.

He collapsed her willfulness with each word, cutting. 

“You wish to be passed about and used. They use you terribly now, do they not, my bad wolf woman? You are a hole in which the faithful deposit consecrations. No longer. I take you from them. I claim you back to my way. I desire you and long for you, I take you in my hand. Now you are a hole that I fill, venerated despot. Will you feel superior to the next man who approaches your throne and begs for your mercy?”

She said nothing, distracted by her ecstacy.

“Tell me. Speak,” he commanded. He wrenched her up by the hair. She came off his dick with a sloppy pop, her face relaxing into a beatific smile.

“Probably.”

Exasperated, his eyes flattened. 

She shrugged. “Just saying what’s probably true.” She smiled with sweetness too-well practiced. “You prefer the truth, I’ve heard tell. Difficult as truth may be to hear. Or…” she put her finger ponderously to her chin, “mm, I must be thinking of someone else…”

He had to think to unclench his jaw. To break her was no easy thing. He thought only a moment. 

“You wish to be taught humility. I will teach you to be meek.”

He immobilized her from the shoulders. She screeched at the chill in the ice that blossomed rapidly to encase her. He covered her mouth. Hard ice fogged with cold, sealing her lips shut. Then he leaned on what he had learned. He took the lyrium in his blood and connected it with the lyrium singing under his feet. He reinforced reality.

He was very good at keeping away the Fade.

She lept on the palpable advantage of his focus turned to dampening and restricting the use of her magic. She took the opening to feint, then she struck with a thin line of fire at the ice on her mouth, freeing her lips with a loud crack as the ice sundered, her snarling teeth sharp. He sealed her right foot to the ground just as she lunged at him. The snap of her jaws closed inches from his throat.

She was petulant, swearing. She fought and twisted, trying helplessly to break free. She resisted, toothy. Enraged, she spat on him, a delightful pleasure. At his expression, she shook and screamed. She screamed at him, and then at everything, everyone, then she was wordless, just screaming. Loud, frustrated. Long and unrestrained. Her head shook hard back and forth as she went hoarse and choked. He watched as her expression softened from fury to frustration, and finally, to surrender, with a pathetic cry.

“Remember what it is to beg?” he softly said.

“Please,” she whispered, exhausted. “Fuck me. Please fuck me.”

How he made her crawl for her lust. He brought her, with all her power, low and within bounds. He reminded her what it was to rub her knees in the dirt and hear offending, ruthless things; to get mocked and toyed with and hurt. And he understood why.

He stroked her hair and put his cock in her mouth. He pumped her head up and down his length by her hair, his grip hard. She was immobile except for how he used her, and she surrendered. And he knew why the lazy, sweet smile relaxed her mouth around him as she lost the will to struggle, as her power left her, as his string of unceasingly-murmured insults reinforced her depravity. She was cocooned in the hard ice, his power keeping her magic from finding the Fade. He kept her restrained. 

Then peace seemed to come to her tired body. There had been nights when he had needed this too, when he had felt his only connection to goodness through having every measure of power stripped away from him, one at a time in the harmless play of lovers until he was full unraveled, torn up and foolish and weak from his own wanting. 

His scattered breaths clouded the blue night. When her tongue moved like that it made him into a knot of moonlight and moaning. When did the world start turning on heartbeats? When did the air start to bloom with his frantic breaths? Was he spinning into place, or out of it?

She breathed and sucked him, settling into a rhythm, her eyes closed. “Good,” he murmured for some time, stroking her hair. “Good.” He moaned. He allowed the time to pass. He couldn’t ignore the urgency between his legs any longer. She sped her licking, and the back of his head hit the trunk of the tree behind him. He was tight and straining, trying to affect an ease his pounding heart would not allow much longer. Looking down at her would end it, he knew, the sight of her would end him at once. So he kept his eyes closed and trained his mind on distance and distributed his attention beyond the trembling of his body, beyond the tight concentrated urgent pleasure at his cock. She gargled. He stifled his grunts. The scent of the fire, the grass, the sound of the river incessently present, immutable. Those stars which rested heavily on the frail clouds creeping up behind the crags, their songs were deeply quieted by the Veil, but he could faintly perceive their warrish thrums, the songs of dreams upon them. 

He allowed her leniency in her magic. Feeling his permission, she brought her spell of heat against his spell of ice and melted her arm free. 

Her touch was hot in a way he only half-remembered. In the Fade, touch manifested according to a spirit’s fancy of what touch was like from their observations of the immutable folk — people and animals and dragons who wandered the concentrated stuff of unyielding physics without their spirits. He had not lain with spirits, not as any mortal could describe, but the rare and deep spirits of love and pleasure… Coalescing with a spirit could feel to the Dreamer like anything, like swallowing a pointed crown of ice, or floating in an endless river, or dying. Pangara took the length of him in her mouth, against the back of her mouth. Solas could not unpiece his thoughts. He wanted to dream, for she was too pressing, too soft and real and good, and she kept bringing him back to this camp in the hills. Help, he thought, help. This was no spirit’s landscape. How had he forgotten about this boundary between waking and dreams, this linearity of sensation? It went: she touched him. He felt. She loved him. He loved.

And her tongue moved under his balls and then she sucked, one testicle, then both into her mouth.

He would one day be responsible for her death. He hated his thoughts. 

Heat came to his cheeks, rare tears. He tilted his head back and turned his chin. She didn’t see. 

“Don’t stop.” His throat hurt. 

She pressed the tip of her finger within him, and he jerked and roughly grabbed her hair.

Guilt gnawed at him as his body flooded with pleasure. This world was a place of ecstacy he had no right to enjoy, and he felt every place in his body rattling under her touch. He had no right to be tight and groaning as her hot mouth swallowed his cock.

She worked him in ways that made him want to fuck her cunt like an animal. 

He was hotter than he could stand. He felt her hand slide. He swallowed hard. He hated the distraction of his own thoughts. He wanted to think of nothing. He wanted to shove her head on his cock and pump his hips with a blank mind. He wanted a release from shame, a respite from enduring. Himself alone; he craved the end of it, craved the end. He allowed her to obliterate him. She made of him a well of deep sorrow. Her mouth was a hot kiss. 

She moaned, and that was it for him, he felt her deep in his shaft; he scrunched his eyes shut tight. The spray of cum. There were trails of light beading around the inside of his eyes, pounding lights as fast as his heart, brighter. He came hard. He dug himself down upon her mouth.

He looked down at her, opening his eyes. She was forged in light. The fire ate her legs, crawled up her back, grew out of her. He whispered, “Yours is a beauty for which any name has long passed out of memory.”

Her gaze, the alpine fir of her eyes soft in moonlight, the mint leaf way of her eyes shining, was too sharp. She withdrew her finger and finished his cock with an overstated slurp. He jerked at the too finely-focused stimulation. He wanted his breathing to return to normal before trying to speak again. He felt dizzy.

“I am worshiped,” she said in an offhand way. “Worshipped and prayed to. Like I can do anything about it. Sometimes I can.”

He could tell, though he could help her cast her burdens into peace for a time, the questions and fears always returned.

“First, to the water,” he told her. “Come, beloved. Let us wash.” He picked up the bag of food he had prepared, and the drinking horn. He shook out his cock, dabbed at it with his shirt until it was dry, tucked himself back in his longs and buttoned the lowest buttons. As she pulled on her sweater and gathered a blanket around her shoulders, he reached in the bag. “I’ve brought a surprise.”

She was walking towards the river that lay still some way ahead, the sound of it barely audible through the trees. She looked back, her brow furrowed, and said, “It’s unpleasant.”

“Surprises?” he asked.

“Prayer,” she clarified.

“Ah. Yes. It is.” He smiled and revealed the skein of Rivaini yarn. “A gift.”

She beamed and sidled back to him to touch the soft black yarn. “You were in Rivain?”

“I could not say.”

Her smile turned wry. “Of course.”

She took his hand. She led him back to the shallow of the river where it eddied.


End file.
